The Sahara of My Soul
I.
The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.
The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame—
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!
II.
The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.
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